A Business Proposition
by The Duchess Of The Dark
Summary: What do you do if you're millennia old and very bored? You've tried retiring, you've tried a holiday or two. You're still unspeakably bored. You track down an old friend with a business proposition. Eric X OC. Draws a lot of the 'rules' from the books


I shouldn't be here. I can't stress how impolite, not to mention ill-advised, it is of me to even consider walking unannounced into the area 5 sheriff's domain. Yet here I am, dressed to the nines, looking like a _film noir_ anti-heroine. My hair is an elaborate construction, I'm corseted beneath my dress to within an inch of rib-breakage and my heels are positively gravity defying. I paid the surly, tattooed vampire on Fangtasia's door, keeping my eyes averted. Not that I'm worried about being glamoured, I'm not. I'm a little concerned somebody will notice they _can't_ glamour me. Passing through the black and scarlet painted doors, with their fang teeth logo, I drifted past the pictures of legendary vampires, both real and fictional. It's gone eleven on a Friday night and the club was full of fang-bangers, curious, strictly vanilla, lookey-loo tourists and the occasional bored-looking genuine vamp.

A smile tugged at my lips as Connie the Corpse, the resident DJ, smoothly changed tracks to Depeche Mode's 'Corrupt'. How very apt for a vampire club. Stepping around a trio of female fang-bangers, dressed in cheap black satin, white-powdered faces shiny with nervous sweat and alcohol, I leaned on my elbows at the bar. Strobe lighting kicked in, transforming the dance floor into a forest of waving limbs, reeking hormones and vacantly flickering eyes. I smelled cannabis and the acrid tang of rush. The dinner-plate pupils of the skinny boy to my left indicated the ingestion of copious amounts of speed. Some vamps liked to get high by drinking blood from wasted humans. The barman, a centuried vampire with neat cornrows and skin the colour of bitter chocolate, flitted across to take my order. He moved with inhuman speed and grace, putting on little displays of power to impress the punters. I was put in mind of a mamba, sinuous black coils, reptile eyes and sharp teeth. But I wasn't impressed. I've seen real power, and this bloke just didn't have it. He's not old enough, not politically-minded enough. He's a lackey, a monkey to the organ grinder.

"How may I serve you this evening?" he purred in the courtly, affected tones he'd obviously been schooled into employing with customers.

"Whisky, the twenty year old single malt. Make it a double."

The barman didn't quite do a double take at my tone, but his eyes narrowed. He nodded, curtly, and glided off to get my drink. I really should be more careful, but discovered I couldn't bring myself to care. Maybe I'm getting too old myself. I looked at myself in the mirrored wall panelling behind the bar and decided that I might pass for twenty-something human on first glance. The reflection-me gazed solemnly back, green eyes made huge with kohl, lips slicked claret red. I noticed a stray wisp of dark hair on my victory rolls and smoothed it, realising I looked too moneyed for the usual clientele. The fangers wouldn't notice, but more discerning eyes could note the marble-sized pearls at my throat, the diamonds at my ears, nose and labret and the five hundred dollar shoes. Real diamonds give off a rainbow lustre that is lightyears away from the harsh, white glare of cubic zirconium. S'pose I'm just too used to my luxuries, or too plain snobbish to stoop to faux gems and cheap footwear. My dress was purple silk, vintage nineteen forties, custom made to fit me, with the odd hem alteration to suit changing tastes. My figure doesn't alter much, fortunately.

Sliding my drink into my hand, the barman's cold fingers brushed mine, his nostrils flaring like a dog scenting a rabbit. I looked up, saw his fangs had run out to half length, and before I even considered it, locked gazes. Several seconds ticked by and a confused ruckle developed in his forehead. I could feel the insistent press of his will against mine and brushed it aside as easily as sliding a comb through my hair.

"Nothing to see here, Dante," I murmured quietly beneath the thumping music, plucking his name from a badge at his lapel. "Unless of course you want your Master to know you're skimming from the till."

Dante's eyes widened, showing altogether too much white around irises that reflected red in the strobe. My head tipped and I quirked an eyebrow, as if to say _I dare you to push me_. Mouth crimping about his retracting fangs, the barman retreated to mix drinks for a middle-aged Texan lady and her hen party. Wise boy. The area 5 sheriff is known for being a decent boss, that is to say, co-operate and you're well rewarded. Try to screw him over, in even a minor way, and you're staked out to meet the sunrise. I s'pose I was bored, really, to strut into Shreveport unannounced and start toying with the locals to see if anyone noticed. Bored of drifting through Europe from job to job, after an unfortunate incident in England that necessitated my lengthy absence. Bored of lying on various beaches with stupid cocktails and never catching a tan. I don't tan. I just stay the same uniform cream, not quite vampire pale, but enough you can trace the veins from wrist to shoulder. Bored, bored, bored.

That's the problem for us immortals, the supes who live for vast, extended life spans. Plain, honest-to-goddess boredom. At this juncture I probably should explain a few salient facts; I'm a hybrid, which although mixed-race offspring isn't anything to write home about in the supernatural community, my particular background is. My Dad was a fairy, my Mum a demon. When I say Daddy dearest was a fairy, I don't mean he was gay, I mean he was Fey, as in _Sidhe_. Such a pairing was unprecedented, even in the dim and distant times of my birth. What's more, it simply shouldn't have been possible that I was conceived. Sex with demons is corrosive. But, however they did it, and they must've found a way, as they lived long, happy centuries together, the result was yours truly. I'm a mixture of both racial traits; I'm very hard to kill, I don't age, I can travel distance in the blink of an eye if I need to, although it's extremely tiring. I'm faster and stronger than humans, almost on a par with a young vampire. I can spell cast with the best of them, and I'm telepathic, which although isn't a trait of either race, is fairly common in hybrids. Oh, and I can read vampire minds, which they really, really don't like, so I don't advertise the fact.

I'm also prone to mood swings, inasmuch as my moral compass can veer wildly between the light and dark. Which is also a Fey trait. When I'm good, I'm very, very good. When I'm bad, I'm horrid. The opposing impulses of my demonic and fairy blood have almost ripped me apart at times. My halo, if I had such a thing, would definitely have slipped to sit around my throat like a noose. Twisting on the stool to peruse the club, I saw the ornately carved throne on the little stage was now occupied by six odd foot of supercilious Viking muscle. Ah, now this was what Dante aspired to be. Favourite sheriff of the Queen of Louisiana, consummate politician, master manipulator and millennia-old vampire, ladies and gentlemen, Eric Northman. I couldn't help but grin as Eric pretended to be utterly indifferent to the waves of adulation lapping at his feet. Vain little shit. If any vampire had _joie de vivre, _it's him. He loves life, for all his studied lethargy. He's also a fair master; he rotas his vampire underlings to spend time at Fangtasia working the crowds, and takes shifts himself. That's aside from the fact he's a ruthless bastard who always looks out for number one, which is spelled E-R-I-C.

Sipping my single malt, I remembered the last time I saw Eric. I was a lot younger, employed at the King of Paris's court, concealing throwing knives in my powdered wig and paper-thin blades in the folds of my elaborately-painted fan. He looked good in a frock coat and breeches, if I recall, which he wore as carelessly as the leather pants and velvet shirt that were tonight's outfit of choice. But then, with his ice blue eyes, pale golden hair and backside you could sink your teeth into like a peach, he could make sackcloth and ashes look good. Smiling to myself, recalling how I'd nearly parted his pretty head from his neck when he'd stepped too close to His Majesty, uninvited, I licked the whisky film from my teeth. They were simpler, but more violent times. The look of sheer astonishment on his face, clutching at the gouting wound in his throat, had made me snicker for decades after. Thanks to me, Eric never underestimated a non-vampire supe again. When the Goddess made vampires, she gave them arrogance in bucket loads, but also gave the ability to take them down a peg or two to the most unexpected recipients.

Watching as a statuesque blonde glided onto the dais to whisper in his ear, dressed in the wispy black gowns the female vamps at Fangtasia wore like some sort of cliché uniform, I made a mental note. She must be Pam, his latest child, a mere two centuries old. Pam had a reputation for cold, clear reasoning, a wry sense of humour and a love of expensive footwear. Nothing wrong with that. Give her another century or three and she'd be a serious contender for her own sheriff's domain. I've mixed feelings over the Great Reveal, when vampirekind decided to go public after the Japanese invented synthetic blood. Not only have the Weres and the Shifters jumped on the bandwagon, but there's alarming mutterings going on in the demon and fairy communities. Humanity can only cope with so much revelation, the increasingly guerrilla tactics of the Fellowship of the Sun in the USA are ample evidence of that. Under the old regime, the Fellowship would've been quietly, if messily, erased from the face of the earth before they could overly bother the undead powerbase. Not only that, but I think I preferred it when the supernatural communities operated under a veil of secrecy. It kept things restrained, kept them safe, in a strange way. Now, we have 'Fang', an undead lifestyle magazine, the infuriatingly apple-pie American Vampire League and tv debates on 'Oprah'over human versus vampire rights. Things have become so _tacky_ since it all went mainstream. There goes my innate snobbery again.

Finishing the last of my whisky, exhaling, feeling my corset stays creak, I purposefully shucked the scent-masking enchantment I'd cast before arriving. Fairy blood is irresistible to vampires, and if I'd been full Fey, I'd never in a million years consider walking into Fangtasia, unless I had a death wish. The aircon, which was busily churning away in the walls, carried my scent across the club. Relaxed and amused, I waited for the reaction I knew was sure to follow, watching the club in the mirror. Contrary to popular opinion, vampires do cast reflections and can be captured on film, just like (almost) everything else. Sure enough, within approximately two minutes, every bloodsucker's head lifted, sniffing the air, perplexed as their noses told them something delicious, but dangerous, was within reach. Vamps don't drink demon blood, it's like battery acid to them, so I smell tasty but also repulsive. Bit like a lovely, sticky chocolate éclair with ammonia filling.

Ooh, the natives were getting restless. The fangers realised their intended 'dates' had stopped paying them any attention at all. A few were daft enough to protest. Eric paid his underlings well to woo the crowds, after all, Fangtasia was all about the profit margin. Crooking a finger at Dante, whose nostrils were quivering like a spooked horse, I tapped my glass to indicate I wanted a refill. Crinkling my left eye, I reapplied the enchantment, stifling a chuckle as every vamp stiffened and stared around. The music stopped as the song ended, leaving a glaring silence that filled with grumbling discontentment from the punters. Connie the Corpse shook herself, licked her fangs and dived for her mixing decks in a panic. 'Bela Lugosi's Dead' abruptly skirled from the eight foot speakers either side of her booth, accompanied by her anxious-chirpy intro.

The throne was empty, although Pam still stood next to it, her arm draped across the back, mouth a perfect lipsticked moue. I could see the irritated tempo of her lacquered talons on the wood. A big, broad shadow fell across me, blocking out the strobes. A shadow that caused Dante to discover a lot of glasses that needed cleaning, right at the opposite end of the bar. I felt cool fingers brush my shoulder, just for a moment, smelled citrus and musk.

"Bonsoir, Madame. Y a-t-il une raison que vous avez choisi de ne pas s'annoncer? Un peu de centre serveur a pu prendre l'offense." Eric's voice was just how I recalled it, smooth, faintly sardonic, still tinged with the Swedish inflection of his mortal life. Right now, he sounded a little annoyed. I'd riled up the staff without lifting a finger, which by rights, I had no business doing.

"Gutenabend, Polizeichef. Es ist eine Weile gewesen," I replied, taking a mouthful of whisky. "Meine Entschuldigungen."

Eric sighed, mildly exasperated. He knew I wasn't sorry. "Evangeline," he began, warning creeping into his tone.

I twisted around on the barstool to face him, lazily crossing one leg over the other, the corners of my mouth tugging upwards as his gaze dropped appraisingly to my thighs. Still the same old Eric, although I knew he was looking for a concealed blade, as well as admiring the view. I coughed, quietly, pointedly, as he continued to look me over like a new car he was considering purchasing. His cold blue eyes lifted to mine, without a single trace of embarrassment, and he gifted me a tiny, knowing smile.

"Stairmaster," I disclosed, deadpan, which drew a larger smile, complete with a pearl of fang.

Snapping his fingers at Dante, he politely took my hand and bent over it, courtly French style. It's a vampire custom, to temporarily adopt the manners of the period you first met someone, if you've not seen them for some time. I accepted the greeting with a gracious head tilt, allowed him to assist me down from the bar stool and lead me to his private booth, all the time feeling the hot, jealous glares of fang-bangers. Eric rarely chose company from the clientele, whom he considered weak, pathetic creatures, for the most part.

Slinking into the booth, I settled onto the expensive leather cushions just as Dante appeared with a bottle of exceedingly expensive champagne. He was about to pop the cork and set it in the ice bucket when he caught his Master's eye and apologetically presented the bottle to me. I checked the vintage, lingered over the vineyard, then nodded. Taking the bottle from his minion, Eric dismissed him with a glance, flicked out the cork with his index finger and filled two glasses. Vampires can drink, although it's purely for the aesthetic pleasure, rather than any nutritional value, and they don't get drunk.

"Excellent," I commented with a small sigh of pleasure, the bubbles fizzing on my tongue.

"I know how you like your little luxuries," he shrugged, twirling the flute glass in his large fingers.

"Don't we all, Mr Mainstream." I indicated the club, the ringing cash registers, the scores of human and vampire employees. He'd done well for himself.

Eric sat back, expression unreadable in the way only an old vampire's can be. He was whiter than the last time I'd seen him. The intervening centuries pared away vestigial humanity so he looked like carved alabaster, lit from within by the force of his personality, intellect and driving passion. He hadn't fed tonight, I could tell.

"What's the deal? Why're you here?" he asked bluntly. He'd obviously been working on his English contractions and colloquialisms. "The last I heard, you'd retired to a villa on Lake Como with a weretiger."

I felt a little colour rise in my cheeks at the last comment. "Ah, yes. Well, I might've frightened him a little bit."

A peal of delighted laughter burst from the vampire. "A _little?_ I believe he fled the country vowing never to return and you've been abjured from his pack!"

I cocked my head and narrowed my eyes. "Fled, yes, abjured, no... Are you keeping tabs on me, Northman?"

Realising he'd shown his hand, Eric's features quickly fell into that blank mask again. "Aren't you of me? I've heard no whispers of you in the USA, and yet here you are, unannounced, on my doorstep."

Round one to me. I'd managed to pitch up without him knowing a damn thing about it. Mentally, I added the score to my inner chalkboard. Sipping more champagne, I regarded him, slyly.

"Yes, here I am," I agreed jovially.

Silence. If he was expecting me to elaborate, he'd have to work a lot harder. He knows he can't glamour me into talking or his bed, nor into letting him feed from me, and it irks him something shocking. I have to be willing, on all counts. Oh, he could try force, as he's undoubtedly much stronger than I am, but that was never his style. Plus, the battle doesn't always go to the strongest. Moving with preternatural alacrity, Eric refilled our glasses, so quickly, his hand appeared to vanish. The bottle rocked gently in the ice bucket, the only indication it'd moved.

"You look great," he said softly, at length. "Is there a diamond in your tongue too?"

I merely smiled as he rolled his r's and dropped contractions. A verbal tell that he was either angry or horny. I remembered why I was fond of this huge great Viking. For all his political manoeuvring, he was disarmingly direct for the majority of the time. Setting down my glass, I leaned forward. Taking the cue, Eric took up my hand and placed a lingering kiss across the knuckles and wrist. He looked up, blue eyes far from the chilly, disinterest he usually projected. His fangs had slipped to half length. I reached out and smoothed a strand of cornsilk hair from his forehead, ran a fingertip down his jaw.

"I'm bored," I murmured, just as he listed forward to press his lips to my throat.

Eric froze, pulled back and regarded me with open amazement and a little hurt pride. "What?!"

He's used to women, and men, begging for his attentions. When you've had millennia to practice, you get really good in bed. Either that, or you just glamour the poor fool into thinking they've had the best sex of their lives. Bloodlust and sexual desire get all jumbled up with vampires. Humans are just Happy Meals with fun extras a lot of the time. Depends on the toys. I laughed at his umbrage.

"I'm bored of holidaying around Europe," I expounded. "I hear things've been interesting since a certain telepathic Louisiana barmaid got sucked into vamp world."

"Sookie Stackhouse." Eric sounded amused, annoyed and a little wistful.

He dropped my hand like I'd given him an electric shock and did his equivalent of pouting. "So you have decided to _entertain_ yourself in area 5?" He gave me a severe look which would've had lesser beings scurrying for cover. "I will not tolerate disruptions to my business interests, Evangeline, nor will Sophie-Anne."

Shaking my head, I favoured him with a slow, seductive smile that switched the gas back on behind his eyes. "Oh no, _chere_, I'm not here to cause trouble. In fact, I've a business proposition for you."

Eric looked substantially happier the moment he heard this. "Do go on."

"I'd like to buy into Fangtasia, as a silent partner. I wouldn't dream of stepping on young Pamela's toes. Just let me muck in here and there, tag along when you go visiting, that kind of thing."

Eric chuckled indulgently, but he was intrigued by my proposition. "Do I look like I need a bodyguard, Evy?"

"Of course not, but I don't look like a bodyguard," I pointed out, reasonably. "I look decorative, and we both know you like surrounding yourself with, uh, _ornaments_." I slid my warm fingers across his cool forearm. "And just think of the _fun_ to be had. I promise not to break anyone too expensive."

He grunted noncommittally and stroked his chin thoughtfully. Suddenly, his face cleared and he sat straight with an air of determination. Hooked and reeled in. Another scratch on the chalkboard.

"You would, of course," he said slowly, with relish, "have to swear a fealty oath to me. For both our protection, naturally."

Ah, bugger. I was hoping he'd overlook that requirement, for old time's sake. Score one for the Viking. But still two-one to me. I shrugged, dismissively. "I'll give you my lawyer's details and he can look over any contract before I sign the dotted line in blood."

Like hell would I allow Eric Northman access to my holdings, my lands and properties under the terms of a standard fealty bond. Long since past are the times any employer has had claim on my body and personal possessions. I could see a thought forming in the vampire's mind.

"I will _not_ call you master," I stated, cutting him off as he opened his mouth to speak.

Eric sat back, humour sparkling in his eyes. He was highly entertained by the prospect. "Not even once?" he purred, playfully.

He scooted around the booth and was next to me, arm around my waist like a steel trap, in an eye blink. Running a fingertip down my neck, to the notch of my collarbone, toying with my pearls, which were warmed by my skin, he nipped very gently at my earlobe. Mmmmm. I think I'd need to revisit just what fun Eric could be, when the mood struck him. He'd probably have learned a trick or two in the intervening centuries. I know I have.

"Maybe," I suggested, sliding my hands across his solid pectoral. "We should retire to your office to discuss it more."

Without hesitation, he was on his feet, courteously scooping up the champagne bucket in one hand and offering the crook of his free arm. I slipped my hand through, not fooled for a minute, but enjoying the sensation as he 'accidentally' allowed his arm to press against the side swell of my breast. Oh, the games we play to keep ourselves from drowning in ennui. The crowds parted around us like the red sea, closing again with jealous muttering. We'd barely got through the door when he tossed me against the wall, pinning me with his hips.

"How do my staff measure up?" he asked, almost conversationally, except his words were slurred around his burgeoning fangs. Trust Eric to still be thinking business. Vampires, always mixing up their impulses.

"Ah, that'll cost you," I teased, hooking my thigh around his as he slid a hand under my skirt, searching for my stocking tops.

Eric stopped, fingers rested on the little popper attached to my garter, and regarded me thoughtfully. "Yes, I suppose it will, in the end."

Tipping my chin, he kissed me, moved his lips to my throat to taste the leaping pulse there, then dropped to his knees. There aren't many men who can kneel at your feet and still look like they have the upper hand. Pressing his face to my corseted abdomen, he lifted my skirt and ducked his head to kiss the inside of my thigh. I shivered with anticipation as I felt the graze of his incisors. He was always very good at this, though the last time there were layers of whalebone and petticoats to navigate past. Odd what nearly beheading a man can do for your sex appeal. Bracing my back against the wall, I felt him stretch my underwear tight over my mound and trace his tongue slowly up to the most sensitive spot.

"How many will an answer cost me?" he asked. We'd played this game before. I'd almost forgotten. How sweet, and interesting, that he hadn't.

"That depends," I answered archly, battling the urge to tackle him to the floor. Patience is a virtue. "On how good the first one is."

A tongue flicker from him. A shiver and a gasp from me. Eric Northman chuckled richly, the sound vibrating through my pelvis. "A challenge. How novel. I think I will enjoy this business proposition."

He was right of course, though it cost him more than he expected, as he was obliged to punish Dante for stealing, reprimand Pam for laziness and agree to my fealty contract _after_ my lawyer had finished removing any offending clauses. Pam has decided she doesn't like me. Oh well, _c'est la vie_. I've met Sookie Stackhouse, who is very young, very hick blonde and doesn't give herself anywhere near enough credit. If she were a cunning sort of girl, she'd climb that power ladder, but she isn't, and there's many a vampire who's grateful for that. I wonder what that naive little girl will do when she finds out why tall, dark and overly-serious Bill Compton came back to Bon Temps in the first instance? I think I may enjoy my stay in Louisiana...


End file.
